Paola
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A troubled woman returns to the island and captivates Roarke. Follows 'Reluctant Queen'.
1. Chapter 1

§ § § -- January 9, 1999

Stepping out of the car with Roarke at the plane dock on a balmy January morning, Leslie had no inkling whatsoever of the fact that these would be their last tranquil moments for some time to come. Nothing was there to suggest that anything was amiss; in fact, when a young man stepped off the plane with a fantasy to be a prince for the weekend, she was actually disappointed. "Oh, honestly," she said through a sigh. "You'd think people would pay attention to all the sob stories about Diana, with all the tabloids they read."

"As I have observed on numerous occasions in the past," Roarke said in amusement, "it is usually necessary to learn things the hard way. And that is precisely what Daniel Kearney will have to do before the weekend is out." He smiled fondly at her. "Since you have so much knowledge from all your correspondence with Christian, you may be Mr. Kearney's primary advisor throughout the course of his fantasy."

Leslie grinned. "Seems reasonably easy. And who's that, now?" She indicated a slender, dark, very pretty woman who appeared to be in her late 40s just stepping out the hatch of the seaplane. Beside her, Roarke straightened and leaned slightly forward, his eyes widening in amazement.

"I never thought she would return," he said, as if to himself.

"She who? Return from where? Come on, Father, who is she?" Leslie persisted.

"That is Paola," Roarke told her, without ever taking his eyes off their newest guest. "She has been here before: in fact, she was my last assistant, the one I found it necessary to let go mere minutes before you arrived home, eight and a half years ago."

Leslie called up her memory of the day she had returned to Fantasy Island as a recent widow and tried to flesh out the details of her arrival; it took a moment, but she finally did bring back a vague image of a distraught woman nearly colliding with her in a headlong rush off the porch and down the lane. "I think I remember—she almost bumped into me," Leslie said slowly. "Why is she back?"

"She has a fantasy, although she hasn't provided much detail about it," Roarke said. "I can only hope it is possible for me to help her. When she left here that summer, she had a great many demons plaguing her, and refused to divulge their nature to me. Her problems interfered with her job performance; and as much as I wished to assist her, there was nothing I could do. I had no choice but to dismiss her." He shook his head, looking regretful. "Perhaps she has resolved her issues: but if not, I sincerely hope she will trust me to help her banish them once and for all."

"This really means a lot to you, doesn't it?" Leslie said. She was used to her father's concern over his guests, but there was something about his expression—not to mention his apparent acceptance of Paola's lack of forthrightness—that put her on the alert. She let her gaze stray to Paola and had to repress a shudder; there was some quality in the woman's close-mouthed smile that increased her uneasiness. And for some reason she looked vaguely familiar, Leslie realized.

Beside her, Roarke nodded. "I am not accustomed to failures," he admitted, his dark eyes narrowing momentarily before the native girl presented him with his drink. Once he had welcomed his latest guests, Leslie peered nervously at him and found herself wishing the weekend were already over.

‡ ‡ ‡

It didn't take them long to outfit Daniel Kearney for his fantasy, and they set him up in Wellington Castle, which had been built many years before for a fantasy and since then had provided the setting for the odd fantasy here and there. On the way back to the main house, Roarke checked his gold watch three times, making Leslie stare at him. "Are we late for something?" she asked.

"No, no," Roarke said, snapping the watch shut for the last time and making a bit of a show of replacing it in his vest pocket. "Just keep driving, Leslie." Silence descended after that and remained for the rest of the drive home.

Paola was waiting in the study and smiled warmly at Roarke when he and Leslie came in. "It's very good to see you again, Mr. Roarke," she said and took both his hands in hers. Roarke returned her smile in kind and squeezed her hands.

"I hope all is well with you," he said.

Paola spotted Leslie. "Tell me, who's the charming child?" she inquired. "She wasn't here the last time I…" Then she squinted at Leslie. "No, I believe I remember you now. You had just come off the plane when I had to leave."

"Yes…my daughter, Leslie Hamilton," Roarke said. "Please, Paola, sit down. Is there anything we can get you?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you." Paola moved to one of the chairs and made as if to sit, then hesitated and gave Leslie a guarded look. "If you don't mind…perhaps you and I could speak alone?" she said to Roarke after a moment.

"By all means. Why don't you make some rounds, Leslie," Roarke said dismissively and took his chair behind the desk. Leslie, startled, stared at him. His full attention was now on Paola; it was as if, having once told her to leave, he had utterly forgotten her very existence. Deeply unnerved but feeling she had no grounds to argue, she swallowed back her steadily increasing jumpiness and quietly left the house.

Only then did Paola lower herself into the chair. "Quite amazing, my dear Mr. Roarke; nothing has changed here at all. Your island truly is timeless. Somehow I feel much more at ease here, and of course, your hospitality is very welcome."

"Thank you, you're very kind," Roarke said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desktop and interlacing his fingers, regarding her with intense concern. "You must let me help you, Paola. I sense you are still burdened…perhaps even more so than you were when you left here."

Paola lifted a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, a fleeting expression of pain shooting across her features. Roarke tensed in alarm, watching her more closely than ever. A moment later, she lowered her hand and gave him a wan smile. "A touch of headache. I am afraid I've begun to suffer periodic migraines in the last few years."

"Do you still experience the nightmares?" Roarke asked.

"Frequently." Paola scowled fiercely for just a second, her hands tightening on the armrests of the chair. Then she seemed to regain control of herself and said apologetically, "It can be a great load to bear."

Roarke nodded in complete sympathy. "I have no doubt of that. Paola, I myself have known the emptiness you are now fighting, but I was unable to vanquish it alone. If you will trust me enough to allow me to give you the benefit of my experience, I promise you I will do all that is within my power to bring you through it whole and healed."

A strange look flitted over her face, one so fleeting he barely registered it, much less deciphered its provenance. She lowered her head, concealing her face from him, and seemed to be contemplating his earnest offer. The only sound was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock for at least a minute. But when she lifted her head, her smile was soft and thoroughly grateful. "Yes, Mr. Roarke. Yes…please, help me."

Roarke's dark eyes warmed and lit up. "You need not bother with the honorifics, my dear. For you, I am simply Roarke."

Paola's soft smile shifted ever so slightly and she stood up, covering his clasped hands with her own and leaning toward him. "You truly are a rock, Roarke, and you have my eternal gratitude. Now…" She let go and straightened. "Tell me, where am I to sleep?"

Roarke arose as well. "Come with me, Paola, and I'll show you to your bungalow." He gestured for her to precede him, and as he walked closely behind her he found himself thinking that it had been a long time since he'd had such a rush of feeling for a woman. This one had changed from his memories of her in her days as his assistant; he felt ferociously protective, almost possessive, and silently vowed to himself to stand between her and any specter that might dare threaten her.

He took her to the Presidential Bungalow, an elegant little cottage that boasted the very best of everything in accommodations. Paola exclaimed over the furnishings, the décor, the soft carpet under their feet. "How lovely! Ah, Roarke, you spoil me."

"That is my privilege, is it not?" Roarke replied smilingly. "You will find your bags in the bedroom, and when you have refreshed yourself, please take advantage of all we have to offer. There are many pleasant distractions…" His voice trailed off when Paola approached him and again folded his hands into hers, smiling demurely up at him.

"I confess, Roarke, that you are the most intriguing distraction here," she said. "I hope you can spare the time to dine with me? Perhaps here, or at the hotel…or even on a picnic?" She laughed at his wide-eyed expression. "Apparently it has been too long since you went on a picnic. I think it's time we changed that. Leave the details to me, and I will call you when I am ready."

Roarke raised one eyebrow and smiled slowly. "Perhaps not quite all the details, my dear. Let me choose the setting…you won't regret it."

Paola nodded, then stretched onto her toes and for a moment laid her cheek against his. "Once again, my sincerest thanks." When she let go and jogged lightly toward the bedroom, Roarke felt an unexpected sense of loss, as if the air in the room had grown much colder. He half-smiled at his own folly, turned and departed the bungalow. Despite himself, he could feel a growing sense of anticipation.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 9, 1999

Leslie was unpleasantly surprised to find herself eating lunch alone on the veranda. Mariki was puzzled too. "What happened to Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Leslie uneasily, sweeping a quick, hopeful glance across the lane but coming up short. "He didn't tell me anything this morning, and I had no reason to believe he wouldn't be here." She frowned and gave out with a long sigh. "Don't mind me, Mariki. I'm probably dreaming up all kinds of outrageous scenarios that have nothing to do with reality. I'm sure we'll see him at supper." Mariki nodded, reassured, and pushed her serving cart back to the kitchen; but Leslie hadn't convinced herself, and she ate the entire meal with a little black cloud over her head.

She would never have imagined the reality, however. While she sat alone with her misgivings, Roarke was some two-thirds of the way across the island with Paola, lingering over a sumptuous picnic lunch, at Bella Glen—Roarke's private sanctuary. Paola was the first person he had brought here since Helena Marsh; had Leslie known this, the significance of it would have greatly frightened her. To give Roarke his due, he had started out asking Paola to enlighten him further as to the exact nature of her problems; but she had begged off very prettily, asking that he let her just enjoy herself and get her mind off weightier matters. Roarke had given in without argument, and they had talked of inconsequential things as they enjoyed their lunch. Before he quite knew it, the picnic had come to a languorous end, and Paola was pleading an oncoming migraine; so he took her back to her bungalow, made sure she was settled into a dark room, offered her anything he thought she might need, and at last made his reluctant exit.

At the main house he found Leslie heavily occupied; there was a small stack of phone messages on the desk, his date book was open, and she was on the phone with someone who evidently wanted to change the date of his trip, while simultaneously trying to go through the mail. Several envelopes slipped out of her hands and landed on the floor when she tried to shift a pencil to her writing hand. "No," she was saying in a voice that sounded a little frayed, "there's nothing available for this month…" She managed to turn a page in the date book as he stood and watched. "…nor next month either." Once more she struggled to push a page over, and he smiled suddenly and turned it for her, earning a surprised but grateful look. "Ah, here we go. What about March 20? That's the first open weekend we have, and the only one till at least summer." She listened, and a relieved look settled over her features. "Okay, March 20 it is. We'll see you then, Mr. Gray." She wiggled the phone receiver off her ear, where she'd been pinning it with her shoulder, and dropped some more envelopes before she managed to put it back on the hook. She jotted a name in the date book and let the pencil fall, then fell back in the chair and blew out her breath before focusing on him.

"Busy?" Roarke asked indulgently.

"Frantically," said Leslie. "The Saturday-afternoon lull is nonexistent this week. Tell me, what happened to you? You had me worried when you didn't come home for lunch, and I haven't seen you since you dismissed me this morning to talk to Paola."

"Hers is a difficult fantasy," Roarke said. Even he knew he sounded evasive; but while deep inside he didn't blame Leslie for her skeptical stare, it annoyed him all the same. "I have yet to learn its true nature, and it's taking longer than I expected. She is hiding a great many things, and it's impossible to read her."

"Where is she now?" Leslie asked.

"I took her back to her bungalow," Roarke replied, "when she realized that one of her migraines was setting in. Perhaps I have something in the cellar that may help her." He turned to depart the room, but Leslie sprang out of the chair and darted around the desk to grab his arm.

"Father, wait a minute! You have all these messages waiting for you, and in another hour or so I need to check on Mr. Kearney. There's not much you can do for people with migraines. Camille said her sister Andrea's been getting them for the last few years, and all she can do for it is shut herself in the darkest possible room and wait it out. Please, why don't you let Paola rest for awhile and try to clear out some of the paperwork?" She flinched at his flinty stare, but refused to back down.

Roarke frowned at her. "You don't realize the particular nature of Paola's migraine," he said. "Nothing can be done for the average human being, but I believe I can do something for her. If I am ever to learn anything in order to help her, I must make all possible effort. You are doing fine here, Leslie. I'll be back up when I can." With that, he walked off down the hallway, leaving Leslie standing there open-mouthed, his words echoing through her brain. What in the world had he meant by "the average human being"? The phone rang again, summoning her back to the desk with a groan.

Most of Leslie's hour had passed before Roarke returned with a small vial, looking deeply preoccupied. "Perhaps…" she heard him murmur, alerting her to his presence, and she looked up hopefully.

"Father?" she called.

Roarke stopped to look at her. "Yes? Quickly, Leslie, I must take this to Paola." His stance indicated impatience, and she bit her lip.

"Can it wait just a little longer? I've really got to check on Mr. Kearney," she said, her voice apologetic despite herself. It was a perfectly legitimate request and she knew it, yet he had been acting oddly enough that she was afraid of rubbing him the wrong way.

"No, this is urgent; Paola's needs take precedence. Wait for my return," he said curtly and left before she could think of a protest.

Leslie waited till she heard the click of the closing door before expending her fear and frustration with a fist pounded on the desk and a couple of loudly expelled epithets. Never before had she seen Roarke place the welfare of any one person over any other. And why Paola? What was it about her that had him so captivated? _And "captivated" is definitely the word,_ Leslie thought. _It almost looks as if he's…falling for her._ The very concept, once put in so many words, felt like an icy shaft through her stomach. She supposed it was possible that she could be overreacting; but her instincts had been screaming that something was very much awry ever since she and Roarke had watched Paola disembark that morning, and she could remember numerous occasions when Roarke had advised her to trust those instincts. So now she was trusting them implicitly for once, and she couldn't even get her father to stop and listen to her! She glanced at the clock and scowled. No matter how taken Roarke was with that woman's mysterious problems, there was still other business to be conducted: and if he wasn't going to do it, it was up to her. She left a note for him and headed for the time-travel room, where she still had to go in order to make a Roarke-style "jump" into a fantasy, trying to set aside her steadily growing anxiety to present a calm, professional façade to Daniel Kearney.

As it turned out, she need not have bothered with a note; when she got back, Roarke was still out. Of course, there were three new messages on the answering machine, and she wrote them down, wishing she could unload on someone. But it seemed to be the weekend for getaways. Grady and Maureen had gone to southern California with Brianna so they could tour movie studios and take their daughter to Disneyland; Jimmy was on vacation and had taken Camille, David and Craig to Hawaii to visit his parents. And Fernando and Tabitha had temporarily referred their patients to Dr. Lambert at Fantasy Island Hospital so they could travel to Mexico—their first vacation since Fernando had taken over the medical office near the fishing village. Brian and Lauren were completely booked with inter-island excursions and wouldn't be home. Katsumi was working at the teahouse, and Myeko would be at the newspaper laboring over her column. Michiko, too, was out of reach, at some function in some country whose name Leslie couldn't remember. She couldn't even share her fears with Christian: he was still incommunicado, right in the thick of his extended royal junket and likely to be gone for at least another two months.

Knowing she was alone, for all intents and purposes, made her feel abandoned and unduly neurotic as a result. When Roarke came back for supper, she was initially relieved, but it soon became clear that he was somewhere else mentally. To her disbelief, he merely tossed a perfunctory greeting at her when he first arrived, then said nothing at all for the entire meal. Hurt and bewildered, Leslie retreated inward and tried to ignore him.

He left immediately after the meal, and only then did Mariki appear, looking spooked. "Miss Leslie, what on earth is going on?" she asked low, as if afraid Roarke would overhear her. Leslie gave her a helpless look.

"I don't know anymore, Mariki. He's supposedly occupied with a fantasy, but the guest in question has him so caught up that he seems to be turning into a stranger." She shook her head wearily. "I think I'm going to bed—something tells me it's going to be a very long day tomorrow. If you hear the phone ring, just leave it."

"All right. Sleep well, Miss Leslie," Mariki said and started to clear the table, while an exhausted Leslie sought sanctuary in her bedroom. Only her fatigue allowed her to sleep without fretting over Roarke.

§ § § -- January 10, 1999

"I don't know what you gave me, but it worked a miracle," Paola said in wonder. Roarke smiled; she had just arrived, and it was so early that Leslie was still asleep and the sun had only just come up. "I thought today I would take a long ride, explore the island a little more. Will you be my guide?"

"Of course, my dear, of course," Roarke agreed. "I'll be only a moment to change into more suitable attire." He smiled again and hurried up the stairs; it wasn't long before he returned, wearing equestrian clothing and looking full of energy. "Are you ready?" She tucked her arm through his and beamed up at him.

"Yes, you must give me some more of that amazing elixir," Paola went on some twenty minutes later, as they cantered on horseback along a well-worn trail. "My headache was gone in no time, and that's a first. I can't tell you how I suffer with those migraines."

"I'll mix a new batch this evening," Roarke promised. "I am very glad to know that it worked so well." He paused a couple of beats. "Has it ever occurred to you that these migraines are an outgrowth of the larger problems plaguing you?"

"Yes, in fact, it has," Paola said slowly. "But the problems you mention are not so easily removed, Roarke…they go much deeper. I recall that, years ago when I was in the assistant's position, you suggested they are ultimately mental in origin, and also that mental ailments can contribute to—indeed, even cause—physical ones."

Roarke said, "Yes, indeed they can. Mind you, my dear, the elixir I gave you treats only the symptom—the migraine. If you truly wish to be rid of the underlying cause, we must discuss the problem and possible solutions."

"Could we wait until we have reached Bella Glen?" Paola asked hopefully. "I found it so very relaxing there. It's little wonder you chose it as your private domain."

Roarke acquiesced, and the two rode along in companionable silence for the remaining half hour it took them to get to Bella Glen. They dismounted, dropped the reins to let the horses wander and graze at will, and settled on the edge of a smooth, grassy spot that directly overlooked the ocean. The day was impeccable; cottony cumulus drifted in a deep blue sky, and the water glimmered almost indigo. A soft breeze teased Paola's dark curls; Roarke reached out and gathered a hank of her hair in one hand, with inordinate care, absently rubbing it between his fingers. "Tell me, Paola, please. Let me help you."

She sat still, as if absorbing the touch of his hand resting on her shoulder; then she turned to him with despair in her eyes. "If I only knew where to begin! My whole life long I have battled night terrors…demons that whisper to me, telling me to do unspeakable things to the ones I love. As soon as I was old enough, I left my family for fear of harming them. I have had these afflictions since my memory began. I don't know their source, I don't know how to rid myself of them. I know only that they are there, have always been there, and seem determined to remain with me for all my days. No treatment I have ever sought in my life has had the slightest effect on them." She closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them again, there was a strange light in them and her face took on a look of horror. "Even as I sit here with you, they speak to me again. I must go…" She tried to get up, but he firmly restrained her despite her struggles.

"No, no, Paola, don't give in," he instructed her urgently. "Talk back to them. Tell them to leave you, that you will never give in to their demands. You are ultimately the master of your mind, and you must assert that mastery and gain control over those demons before you can vanquish them. It begins here, and I will help." He released her hair, cradled her face in his hands and touched his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. Paola sat almost immobile in his cautious grasp, her own eyes closed, her face contorting now and then as she shouted back at her mental chimera. In his own mind Roarke heard the distant echoes of voices, taunting, laughing, threatening, and one desperate, continuous cry of protest: but that was all he could make out. They seemed in his perception to be at some distance, audible but incomprehensible, wordless ribbons of sound. Mentally he called down the tenuous link between them, but there was no response, as if he had gone unheard or ignored. He raised his "voice" and tried again, but could not make his presence known.

To an outside observer, the scene would have been disturbing. As Roarke made one futile attempt after another to establish a mental presence, his face took on an increasingly anguished look, a sign of his growing frustration at being unable to lend his powers to Paola's struggles. Paola kept grimacing, whimpering audibly now and again as she screamed at the enemies only she could see.

_They are closing in on her,_ Roarke realized angrily, and loosed one enormous, inarticulate roar down their mental link. The sound came out physically, as a growl of frustration; Paola cried out softly, and the link snapped. Her eyes popped wide open and she gaped at him, while he sat breathing as if he'd run a mile, his eyes closed and his face a mask of empathetic pain. She reached up and rested her hands on his cheeks; he opened his eyes at her touch and grimaced in defeat.

"I couldn't get through," he whispered, so painfully that she winced in response. "I have never known such failure. I couldn't help."

"Stop, Roarke, stop—you did everything in your ability to do, and that's enough," she insisted. "Don't punish yourself so. I was certain I heard your voice somewhere in the background, and it gave me strength." Her expression softened and she smiled faintly up at him. _"You_ give me strength, my Roarke." Gently she drew his head down to hers, and their lips met, tentatively at first, and then with rapidly increasing passion. They eased back onto the grass, lost in each other; the world might have blown to bits around them and they never would have noticed.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- January 10, 1999

Roarke never did return home the rest of the afternoon; in fact he missed supper at the main house, and by now Leslie was beside herself. It was all she could do to end Daniel Kearney's fantasy without revealing the frenetic turmoil inside her; but she must have succeeded, she supposed, since he looked satisfied with his weekend and didn't ask her any questions. _Must be Father's subtle training across the years,_ she thought. _I've finally figured out how to be poker-faced._ She returned to the main house with a sense of relief at the weekend's coming conclusion and went directly to bed as she had done the night before; this time, for the first time since her confrontation with Michael Hamilton seven years before, she had a nightmare and bolted straight up in bed. The room was dark; only her bedside clock was visible, and it said 2:58. She sat catching her breath and calming herself down for a moment, then tried to remember what she had dreamed about. She could recall a sense of abandonment, and in the dream she remembered crying out for someone without getting a reply. Just before she'd awakened, she'd seen an impenetrable blackness consuming everything around her.

What was that supposed to mean? Leslie had never had a penchant for ESP, but she had the nagging feeling that the dream had been some sort of warning. No one was around to help her; but she had no idea how she could possibly prevent anything from occurring on her own.

That led to her wondering where Roarke was, and she slid out of bed, venturing into the hallway and scanning the bottom of the closed door to his bedroom. There was no line of light there, but she had no idea whether that meant he was home or…somewhere else. Her brain shied away from the idea that he might be with Paola. That woman ought to be leaving in the morning, Leslie thought hopefully, as most weekend guests did. She veered into the bathroom and, working by the little seashell nightlight there, dampened a washcloth and patted her still-hot face with the cool terry fabric.

The hallway light came on then and she squinted in the harsh illumination, at first seeing only a silhouette. Then the figure asked, "What are you doing up?"

"I had a nightmare," Leslie said, recognizing Roarke's voice, but not feeling relieved at all. It had to be his tone: he had sounded irritated. "I just wanted to refresh myself before I went back to sleep. Did I wake you up?"

"You had better get some sleep," he told her, a little more conciliatory. "We have to be at the plane dock early in the morning, and then I have many things to do." Roarke didn't wait for her response; he turned and went back down the hall, dousing the light.

_He's still being evasive,_ Leslie reflected uneasily, slipping back into her own room and into bed. _ I should bet my salary for the next six months that Paola's not leaving on tomorrow's charter. I could put a nice fat down payment on a mansion over in the Enclave._ Her own black humor merely unnerved her that much more, and it took her some time to get back to sleep again.

§ § § -- January 11, 1999

Roarke was unfailingly polite to his guests, as he always was, but Leslie took special note of the fact that Paola did not come to the dock and decided that next time, she was going to actually place the bet. Daniel Kearney reacted to the amused look that thought produced and thanked her warmly for the chance to learn things he'd never suspected about being royalty. "How did you know it would be this way?"

Leslie simply smiled. "I have good sources," she said. "I'm just glad you enjoyed the weekend. Have a safe trip home." They shook hands; Kearney bid Roarke farewell and was soon boarding the plane.

The very second the moorings were disengaged and the plane started to bob away from the dock, Roarke muttered absently, "Elixir," turned and began to walk down the dirt lane toward the Ring Road, without even waiting for the car. Leslie stared after him, totally disoriented. Never before had he gone through an entire morning without one word to her; he hadn't even spoken to her at breakfast. What on earth was Paola doing to him that had him so single-minded? Leslie sighed heavily, seeing another long day ahead, even though Monday was usually clean-up day and the one with the lightest workload.

As it happened, she was right. Roarke spent the entire day away from the main house while she was all but chained to his desk, placing orders for food and flowers, dispatching the housekeeping staff to the bungalows, getting reports from the hotel, restaurants, casino and amusement park, sorting mail, paying a few bills, scheduling fantasies and taking phone calls. Several of them dealt with messy issues whose particulars she had no clue about; the callers were upset to learn that Roarke was unavailable and took it out on her. After the third such call, she resolved to let the machine pick up all calls for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, when the phone rang again and the machine kicked in, the person on the other end insisted that the receiver be picked up. "I know someone's there," he said, "so come on. I'm tired of getting the runaround." Driven by guilt, Leslie picked up and was subsequently treated to a round of verbal abuse that left her shaking. In the middle of it all, Roarke walked in, an empty vial in one hand. He paused in the foyer to observe her travails, but neither spoke nor moved otherwise.

"Quite frankly, Mr. Allen, I'd give my eyeteeth if he were here," Leslie suddenly said wholeheartedly into the phone. "If I could summon him with a snap of my fingers, I'd do it, believe me. At the moment—" She happened to look up then and cut herself off. "One moment, please." Jabbing the _hold_ button, she stood up and held out the receiver towards Roarke. "Father, please, will you handle this guy? He's haranguing me about safety issues at the amusement park, and I can't make him believe that we had all the rides inspected just a week ago. He wants to deal directly with you."

"You appear to be doing a fine job, Leslie," Roarke said with an absentminded smile, a vague bit of praise that did nothing for her. "As you can see, I am busy."

"With what?" Leslie asked point-blank. "What are you doing that you refuse to tell me about? You've left me out of the loop all weekend and I've hardly seen you, and when I do, you act as if I'm not even here. What's going on?"

Roarke's dark eyes narrowed slightly and he came into the study to face her head-on. "Paola's problems are far more serious and complicated than can be solved in one mere weekend. I was just on the way to make a fresh batch of elixir for her migraines when I saw you in here." He glanced at the desk, though Leslie had a feeling that the sloppy mess atop it didn't register with him at all. "Nothing has gone wrong, so it's reasonable to assume that you are handling everything with competence. I simply have far more important matters to attend to."

"Why is she so much more important than your business, and your guests, and your employees?" Leslie cried. "All day long people have been calling expecting to talk to you, and without exception, they're taken aback to get me. I've already had several people yell at me for one thing or another, and this latest guy is giving me grief solely because I'm not you! Please, Father, at least get this character off our backs…I'm begging you." She stretched across the desk, trying to get him to take the phone receiver.

Without warning Roarke's expression iced over. "Leslie Susan, you have yet to learn that there are some things that simply transcend all else." He started to leave, then hesitated long enough to eye her coldly over his shoulder. "However, the documents you need are in the credenza, second drawer, in the folder labeled 'Safety'." With that, he walked out.

"_What is she doing to you?"_ Leslie screamed after him, at her wits' end. But she might as well have saved her breath. She found the papers she needed, managed to fend off the obnoxious caller, and hung up—only to break down at last into hopeless, body-wracking sobs. Three straight days of Roarke's absence, his completely uncharacteristic behavior, the unusually heavy workload that she'd handled entirely alone, and her shot-to-pieces nerves had finally taken their toll. She simply gave in to her fear and despair and let her storm of weeping control her utterly.

The sound of her wailing brought Mariki in from the kitchen; she hastened around the desk and pulled Leslie out of the chair, gathering the sobbing young woman close and trying to shush her. "Take it easy, Miss Leslie, things will be all right," she kept repeating, to no avail. In the midst of this, Julie walked in with a room list, stopped and stared.

"Good Lord, what on earth is wrong?" she exclaimed.

"It's a long story, Miss Julie," Mariki said. "Tell me, have you seen Mr. Roarke at all this weekend?"

Julie frowned, clearly having to think it over. "No, actually I haven't," she said. "That's not exactly unusual for me, but now that I think about it, I'm surprised he isn't here now. I mean, it's Monday, and he's always available on a Monday."

"Exactly," Mariki said, pouncing on this statement with a sharp nod. "He hasn't been in this house, except to eat and sleep, for the last three days. He's acting completely unlike himself. Miss Leslie's had to deal with almost everything on her own, and I think the strain got to her." She lowered her voice as if in confidence to Julie. "I noticed last evening on my way home that Mr. Roarke was out at the beach with some woman. I never saw her before, but they were acting pretty chummy…if you get my drift."

"It sounds like uncle's found a new romance," Julie said, shrugging.

Leslie looked up at that; the sight of her face visibly startled Julie. "This is about the last woman I want him to find love with," she croaked, her voice nearly unrecognizable due to her emotional state. "She supposedly has some sort of fantasy, but all I can see is that Father's mixing up potions to get rid of her migraines."

Julie stared at her; her expressive, still-girlish face registered puzzlement. "So?"

"So he keeps saying she has serious problems, but he won't explain what they are. For that matter, he barely talks to me at all. And for some reason, all the manure on the island decided to hit the fan at the same time, and I've been trying to defuse tempers and clear up problems all weekend long."

Julie approached the desk, obviously trying to understand. "I still don't get it. What is it about this woman that's got you going?"

Leslie shook her head impatiently, snagging a tissue from the box on the desk and trying to mop her face. "I can't explain it, Julie, not and make you understand. I don't even think I understand it myself. All I know for sure is that my instincts have been screaming she's trouble, from the moment she got off the plane Saturday morning. I don't know just what it is, but she's so…" Her voice gave out and she threw her hands into the air, at a loss for words. "My gut says she's bad news, and that's all there is to it."

"Really," said Julie. "How come you're the one who thinks so and uncle hasn't got a clue? I hate to say it, Leslie, but it sounds like a fish story to me."

"Then wait around," Leslie snapped, "and try to get his attention when he comes back up here with more tender loving care for dear, sweet Paola. I promise you, Julie MacNabb, he'll barely realize you're even alive!"

Mariki, who had stood by watching, reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Calm down, Miss Leslie. Miss Julie, if you don't believe her, then I should tell you I've seen him too. I'm a witness, and I'll back up every word Miss Leslie says. You do as she says and wait here till Mr. Roarke gets back from the basement. You'll see."

Julie looked back and forth between them, unable to scoff any longer with two of them offering testimony, but not quite able to accept their word. Mariki gave her a firm nod and folded her arms over her chest; Leslie eyed her rebelliously but in silence.

No one spoke till Roarke emerged from down the hallway, now with a filled vial in each hand. Julie looked at Leslie, who gestured in Roarke's direction with a "wait and see" look on her face. Julie shrugged and went to meet her godfather.

"Uncle, I've got the room list for this week," she said, holding out the sheet.

Roarke barely broke stride. "Very well," was all he said, and he walked right out the door. Julie's mouth dropped open and she gawked after him in astonishment.

"You see?" Mariki demanded. "He's different!"

"Yeah…I suppose he is," Julie mumbled, perplexed. After some rumination she offered weakly, "Maybe he's just really, really concerned for this woman."

Mariki made a rumbling sound of skepticism. "Miss Julie, you have a gift for understatement." To Leslie she said, "Are you going to be all right?"

Leslie nodded a little reluctantly. "I guess I'm over my crying fit now. But it doesn't solve anything, and nothing's changed. I honestly believe Father thinks he's in love with this woman, that somehow she's got him so deluded that he can't see what she really is."

"I still don't know how you get the jitters about her and he's totally blind," Julie complained. "How on earth do you explain that?"

"I can't," Leslie admitted, frustrated with herself. "I've racked my brain the last two nights and been awake till horrendous hours trying to make sense of this craziness, and I just plain can't." She pulled herself together with visible effort as Julie and Mariki watched, and drew a long fortifying breath. "Well, whatever state of mind Father's in, I still have to hold down the fort around here. I'll take the room list, Julie, and I'll get back to you with the names for next weekend." Suddenly she brightened hopefully. "You want to eat here this evening? I doubt Father's going to be around, and it'd be nice to have company."

"Sure," said Julie, "it'll give me a break from cooking. What time?"

They settled on an hour for her to arrive; then Julie left and Mariki returned to the kitchen. Leslie sank wearily into her father's desk chair, wondering if the next time Roarke dropped in to whip up some more headache tonic, she could filch a bit of it from him. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, and thus missed the dark wraith sliding silently into the shadows behind the terrace.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- January 11, 1999

Roarke arranged for room service at the bungalow, and he and Paola spent a leisurely meal savoring the excellent food and wine, occasionally making conversation. But there seemed now to be a quiet languor marked by withdrawal on Paola's part. He watched her with some anxiety.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he asked, in the end unable to tolerate the unsettled mien in the air. She seemed surprised that he was there and looked oddly at him.

"It seems more humid this night," Paola said and shrugged. "Is this common?"

"No, actually," Roarke said slowly, a bit confused by the desultory turn in the sparse conversation. He let the subject drop right there, instead regarding her with something akin to alarm. "You are being reticent again, Paola."

She sighed. "I dare not make this request of you…you have much to do as it is, and I fear I have caused you to neglect your duties."

"Leslie has handled it well enough," Roarke said dismissively, pushing his plate away, not registering the millisecond flicker in Paola's expression at his mention of his daughter. "There is no need to worry. I am at your service as long as you need me."

Paola studied him for all of sixty seconds; Roarke steadily returned the gaze, waiting as patiently as ever. Then she arose and drifted to his end of the table, settling one hand on each of his shoulders and leaning almost close enough to kiss him. "I need you this night, my Roarke," she said quietly. "I need you to banish the nightmares."

Roarke caressed her face, without ever taking his eyes off hers. It was as if she had trapped him in her gaze, and he let himself fall. "As you will," he whispered.

They left the dishes on the table and moved gradually towards the bedroom, still locked in each other's stares, until Paola stopped him just short of the doorway and pulled his head down to hers. By now Roarke was so lost that he put up no resistance at all; in fact he docilely trailed her into the bedroom. As soon as she had closed the door, his demeanor shifted abruptly and he dragged her into his embrace, becoming the aggressor and taking charge with an almost rough kiss. But Paola seemed to revel in it and encouraged him in excited whispers; she inflamed him, and he gave in for one of the very rare times in recent memory. All thought, all reason, all sense fled his mind and he let himself drown in her. So engrossed was he in her that even the semi-supernatural senses that so often befuddled his guests and his daughter were buried in the tide of sensation: he only _felt._

Hours later Paola woke, fully and abruptly, totally alert at once. She slid easily from Roarke's embrace and checked the time. There was still at least three hours of darkness remaining to her, but she didn't want to waste the time she had. She pulled on a dark jumpsuit, gathered a small bag from her suitcase, and started to leave through the glass door in the bedroom's wall of windows.

A soft breeze stirred the gauzy curtain hanging there and she paused for a few seconds, turning to gaze at Roarke, who lay deeply asleep. For the first time in his presence, her smile was touched with a hint of cruelty. "Sleep well, my Roarke," she whispered, "for you'll surely need it." She released a mirthless breath of a laugh and vanished.

The demons that had plagued Paola since the day she was born had served to shape her personality to some extent. She was more than willing to give in to their commands, especially since what they wanted from her coincided with what she wanted for herself. She now had Roarke completely under her control; actually, it had been very easy. That mortal girl he called his daughter was another matter altogether. From the first, Paola had read the suspicious, wary look in Leslie Hamilton's eyes, and had decided very early on that she needed to be disposed of. Once the Hamilton girl was out of the way, she would concentrate entirely on Roarke, and see to it that he either never noticed her absence, or wouldn't care if he did. Eventually she would dispatch him as well; but right now, the girl took precedence. Paola used the moonlight to make her way to the darkened main house in short order, then employed a mental technique she had filched from Roarke during their contact the day before to unlock the French shutters and slip inside and upstairs. This part of the house was unfamiliar to her, and she had to glance into doorways before spotting the sleeping Leslie.

Smiling a very feral little smile, Paola eased into the room and, working by the moonlight gleaming through the window, withdrew from her bag a squat, wide-mouthed jar and a syringe. Silently she uncapped the jar, filled the syringe with some of its contents, and recapped it once more. Leslie shifted in her sleep as Paola slid the jar back into her bag, and Paola went stock-still till Leslie's movements ceased. In fact, it was advantageous to Paola; Leslie had thrown one arm out over the edge of the bed, and it was simplicity defined to steady that arm with one hand while she pushed the needle into the skin with the other.

The sting of the needle woke Leslie almost instantly and she tried to yank her arm away; but Paola's grip became viselike, and Leslie was forced to endure the entire contents of the syringe being injected into her bloodstream. "What the hell are you doing?" Leslie demanded, her tone frightened and angry all at once.

"You'll know in due time, little girl. Right now, I just want you compliant and agreeable," Paola told her calmly, withdrawing the needle and tucking it back into her bag. She rose smoothly to a standing position and watched patiently, a tiny satisfied smile on her features, waiting for the substance to take hold.

Paola almost had to admire the girl; she fought the drug like a tigress, forcing her eyes open, violently shaking her head to stay awake. But it was all to no avail, and within two minutes she slumped, unconscious. Paola dragged Leslie out of bed and easily hefted her limp body over her shoulder, then descended the stairs and exited the house through the shutters that she'd left open. After about five minutes' walk down a trail, she emerged onto the lane where the bungalows were grouped; there was a jeep parked there, which had been at the disposal of a guest during the weekend. Paola dumped Leslie's inert body into the passenger seat and buckled her in, letting her head loll; then she narrowed her eyes and glared at the ignition assembly on the steering column. Nothing happened, and she growled low in her throat, concentrating all her focus on the keyhole. It took some thirty seconds for the engine to make a couple of halfhearted coughs. Gritting her teeth, Paola summoned still more will. Reluctantly the engine whined, sputtered, then at last turned over.

Sweating from the effort and cursing herself that she hadn't taken even more knowledge from Roarke's open mind the day before, Paola got into the driver's seat and turned the jeep around in the narrow lane. A few minutes later she was speeding down the Ring Road, with a specific destination in mind. All the way there, she was grinning.

§ § § -- January 12, 1999

It was the sun shining into the bedroom that woke Roarke. Disoriented at first, he reached instinctively for the other side of the bed and found that he was alone in the room. Memory came back in a flood and he frowned, then sat up. Apparently Paola was an early riser; he himself usually didn't sleep this late. Then he remembered exactly why he had, and a small smile flickered over his handsome features. Undoubtedly he would see her later on. He rose from the bed, dressed swiftly and took a brisk walk back to the main house.

His amiable mood dissolved when he stepped into the foyer and spotted the open shutters. The study was deserted, and a light was blinking on the answering machine. He glanced at it, cast a quizzical look down the hallway where he could hear the echoes of voices from the kitchen, then shook his head and crossed the study to fully open the shutters. Roarke then headed upstairs to change clothes and roust Leslie out of bed; he accomplished the former objective in no time, but was foiled in the latter when he found his daughter's room as deserted as the study. She had even left the bed unmade, which was utterly unlike her.

Roarke frowned, annoyed. Leslie had been quite confrontational all weekend, and he suspected this was her way of rebelling. Shaking his head in disgust, he descended the stairs again and surveyed the desk. Since he was here, he might as well try to tend to business. He took his place behind the desk, gathered up the stack of phone messages in Leslie's handwriting and began to return phone calls.

Mariki came in within minutes and brightened. "Good morning, Mr. Roarke!" she exclaimed when he hung up from the first call. "Breakfast?"

Roarke nodded curtly, barely looking up. "A bowl of fruit, please, Mariki, and quickly. There is quite a bit to do here. I'll merely eat here in the study."

Mariki stared at him in amazement. "Not on the veranda, sir?"

"There's no reason to," said Roarke flatly. "Leslie has apparently gone AWOL and left me with a great deal of work to handle. Just bring the bowl in here."

Mariki nodded slowly. "Very well, sir," she said and left. When she returned in about five minutes with the bowl, she simply left it on the desk without a word to him and returned to the kitchen. It would have mattered little if she had spoken; Roarke didn't even acknowledge her with a glance.

He had worked his way through about half the telephone messages when the foyer door opened and Paola came in. She gave him a slow, seductive smile; he returned it, half his attention already on her. Somehow he wound up the current call while she strolled behind his chair and began to massage his shoulders. Once he'd hung up, he let his head fall back and smiled faintly, closing his eyes. The remaining work was instantly forgotten.

Paola leaned over the back of the chair, lowered her head and kissed him, giggling at the sensation of meeting his lips with hers upside down. Roarke smiled when she pulled away, and she dipped around the side of the chair and beamed at him. "Such a drudge you are, my Roarke!" she teased. "Why sit in here and work, when the entire island awaits?"

Roarke gave her a regretful little smile. "I am afraid it's necessary, my dear," he said. "There is an impressive backlog here, and Leslie has disappeared somewhere."

Paola rolled her eyes. "Impudent child," she clucked with disapproval. "Surely she's jealous of the attention and care you've given me these past several days. She will simply have to be brought to her senses and punished." She straightened up while Roarke watched her, faintly surprised at her words. "Come, my Roarke, there is so much of this place that you have yet to show me."

"Show you?" echoed Roarke, vastly amused. "In the past three days we have explored nearly every inch of jungle on the island! I don't think there is anything left for me to show you. Perhaps you have it in mind to search for Leslie? It's true that we should track her down and bring her back here…"

"Bah…that child," Paola spat with enough venom to startle him. "Let her find her way back on her own, and you can punish her then. Come with me." Her tone turned wheedling. "You are the only one who can banish my demons, and I must have you by my side."

"Then you might remain here," said Roarke, with only a hint of a smile now. "I've taken enough time from business matters. If it weren't for Leslie's disappearance, it would be different, since I could leave her here to handle them. However, that's not the case. If you wish my company, then stay here with me." He winked at her to soften the words, then plucked the next message slip off the stack and dialed another telephone number.

Looking thwarted, Paola stood near the shutters pouting, watching in a sulky silence while Roarke made his way through several more messages, eating fruit from the bowl when he had a chance. He smiled frequently at her, but she didn't respond except for childishly resentful glares. Eventually he ignored her and continued working; a vague impatience with her had come to life somewhere deep in his mind, one of which he wasn't yet consciously aware, but which began to have some influence on his actions. When she finally stalked out in a huff, he didn't even see her go.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- January 12, 1999

When Leslie awoke, she had a monumental headache the like of which she had never experienced in her life. Her vision was blurred, and no amount of blinking or squinting would improve it. Her limbs felt limp and liquescent; she realized blearily that she was lying on one side, on what felt like a rough dirt floor. She had no energy with which to lift herself into a sitting position; not only was her body quiescent, so was her brain. After a few feeble, listless and unsuccessful attempts to move, she gave up and lay staring blankly and without focus at some indeterminate spot she could barely even see.

In the state she was in, time was immeasurable. Minutes or weeks could have passed when a pair of slender tanned feet in white sandals stopped directly in front of her face; she was so lethargic, she didn't even blink, let alone flinch. She simply stared.

"Get up, you worthless brat," snapped a voice, but Leslie couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. A few seconds later she was brutally yanked into a seated position and pushed back against a wall with a jarring thump. Leslie was aware but immobilized, in both mind and body; she was for all intents and purposes a live doll, unresponsive, glassy-eyed, utterly dependent on the whim of someone else. Her headache worsened as a result of her impact with the wall, but she had no energy or will to respond.

Paola knelt in front of Leslie and shifted a bit till she had placed herself directly in Leslie's line of sight. "Well, look at you, little girl. You remind me of a silly-looking doll I had as a child. It had a very stupid stare on its face, exactly like yours now." There was no reaction from Leslie, and she sat back on her heels, studying the younger woman thoughtfully. "Hmm…perhaps I gave you too much karnise. I didn't think about what it might do to a mere mortal." She experimentally snapped her fingers before Leslie's eyes, but Leslie only blinked once. Paola shrugged and rose to her feet. "No matter, little girl. Your father seems to be occupied with lesser things, so that leaves me all day to wait for you to come alive a bit more." She moved back, out of Leslie's field of vision.

Leslie's hearing, dulled like her sight, functioned as would that of someone partially deaf; so she heard the odd thump from time to time, muffled and indistinct. Her brain had begun to stir a bit; Paola's words rambled through her memory, and she seized one and fixated on it. What precisely was _karnise_? Paola had said that maybe she'd administered too much…without considering its effects on a "mere mortal". Strange choice of words…

Having grasped something to concentrate on, the rest of her brain began to clear. Her vision and hearing very gradually sharpened, though she was thinking so hard that she was barely aware of the improvement in her condition. And as a result, her memory began to reawaken. Roarke's completely out-of-character actions ever since Saturday morning came back to mind; and she now recalled him referring to "the average human being". Which, Leslie mused, seemed to suggest that Paola was not. And if she wasn't, then who was she? Did Roarke know?

There must have been some expression on her face that suggested her brain was back in functional order again, because Paola suddenly knelt before Leslie again and forced her head back by lifting her chin. "Well, little girl, it appears you're looking a bit more alive. Do you have anything to say?"

"You're…not…one…of…us," Leslie said, her voice rusty and her speech halting, but her demeanor very certain. Paola stilled, and the two stared at each other.

Then, very slowly, Paola smiled. It was not a friendly smile, and Leslie chilled inside. "So you're not so stupid, then," Paola commented. "Perhaps that's good…perhaps not." She sighed heavily. "Well, I can't let you decipher too much too soon." She rose, crossed the room and came back with the syringe. Leslie wanted desperately to avoid another injection of whatever this karnise stuff was, but her body was still sluggish and she couldn't twist away fast enough. Paola grabbed her arm and inserted the needle, and within minutes the world around Leslie went black once more.

‡ ‡ ‡

By early afternoon Roarke had caught up on the telephone messages and most of the backlogged paperwork, but there had been no sign of Leslie the entire day. Mariki was very worried by now about Leslie's absence; and because of her employer's strange behavior of late, she was not the least bit reassured by his dismissive assumptions that she was just playing hooky. When suppertime was a little more than an hour away and Leslie had not returned, Mariki tried to prod Roarke into looking into the matter. "Sir, don't you think it's time we tried to find her? She would never stay away this long."

Roarke's annoyance and irritation with Leslie had increased as the day progressed, and his temper rose at mention of her. "Have you not observed her jealousy of Paola, Mariki? For some reason she simply refuses to get along with her, and I'll have no more of her petty, childish tantrums. When she returns—and you can rest assured she will—I'll deal sternly with her. She must understand that I have my own life, as much as she has hers."

"That isn't the problem, Mr. Roarke," insisted Mariki. "It just isn't like Leslie to up and vanish like that. I feel it in my bones—something's wrong. Please, sir, call the police, or at least let me do it."

Roarke raised an eyebrow. "She will be back," he said with finality and shifted his attention to other matters, signaling that the subject was closed. Mariki exhaled with angry frustration and left the study, muttering blackly to herself that Paola must have the world's silkiest claws: she'd sunk them into Roarke without his even realizing it!

A few minutes later Paola wandered into the study, and Roarke looked up in surprise, welcoming her with a questioning smile. "Did you enjoy yourself, wherever you went?"

"Immensely," said Paola. Her wide, close-lipped smile had a crafty quality about it that did not escape Roarke's notice. Something about it nagged him enough to arise from his desk and approach her cautiously.

"Where did you go today?" he asked with deceptively innocent curiosity.

"Exploring, of course," said Paola. "But I grew quite tired, and another migraine is coming on. Have you more of that wondrous elixir?" She ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders, smiling into his dark eyes, tipping forward as if to kiss him and then pulling back with a faintly taunting look.

Roarke's vague suspicion lingered, though it was already fading. "You don't seem to be suffering the symptoms," he said.

"Being with you seems to be a palliative," she murmured, changing from coquettish to seductive in a twinkling, stepping into his embrace and tilting her head far enough back to regard him with her eyelids at half-mast. "Oh, my Roarke, how good you are for me."

He was lost despite himself, and crushed her to him, kissing her with single-minded determination. Paola willingly submitted; but when he broke the kiss and asked that she be with him that night, she giggled and backed out of his arms.

"Too much of a good thing, my Roarke," she said in a mock-scolding tone, playfully shaking her finger at him. She went serious. "Whether you think so or not, I do feel another migraine, and I am nearly out of the elixir."

"I myself have run low on its ingredients," Roarke said truthfully. "Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow morning."

Paola blinked in surprise, then sighed. "Oh, very well," she muttered grudgingly. "Do what you must, but I can't go long without it." Without waiting for a reply, she pivoted on one foot and departed.

Roarke stood there watching her go, frowning slightly with mild perplexity. She was up to something; he'd seen it in her expression. He moved slowly back to the desk, trying to decide whether it was something he need worry about. This time the nagging feeling stayed with him and slowly grew while he dined, then completed the last of the backed-up work and prepared to retire alone for the night. In fact, it was the last thing he thought of before he drifted into slumber.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie wasn't sure whether she was really awake; her surroundings were still pitch-black, and either there was no sound or her hearing was out of whack again. It took her a good two hours to recover enough to be able to sit up on her own; by then her eyesight and hearing had returned to nearly normal and she was able to make out moonlight, filtered by trees, through a square, glassless hole in the wall. So it was night; but where was she? She strained her ears for any of the familiar night sounds; tree frogs croaked in serene chorus, and now and then there was the bass call of an owl. Finally she heard the one sound she'd been waiting for: the distinctive, unique voice of Fantasy Island's night crier. The bird could be found nowhere else on earth; so when its cry came, she was deeply relieved. Wherever she was, it was still on the island.

She struggled to get to her feet, but her limbs hadn't quite recovered enough strength to hold her up, and after just a few minutes she was exhausted and forced to sink back to the floor where she'd first awakened. Her stomach rumbled so loudly she thought at first it was another nocturnal creature, then had to laugh at herself for the misconception. _Come on, Leslie Susan, time to give it another try. You've got to get out of here._ This time, when she made it onto her feet, she managed to stay there, and took tiny, careful steps in the hope of making some actual progress. Sheer determination kept her moving, and in a few minutes she'd exited what turned out to be a crude, ramshackle grass hut that appeared to have been abandoned for years. Leslie knew she had never seen it before, in any case. She scanned the area for a trail; there was no way Paola would have brought her here without blazing some sort of trail, if only so she could find her way back out again.

Unfortunately, the way she ended up finding it was by seeing Paola emerge from it into the small cleared space in front of the hut. Paola's face became an enraged mask and she seized Leslie by the elbow, dragging her back inside and throwing her into the same corner she'd labored so hard to escape. "Did you really think you were going to make it, little girl?" Paola demanded, rummaging inside her bag as she spoke. "I think not. I have a few bones to pick with you first." She withdrew her jar and syringe. "Just to be sure you'll stay put and listen to me, I'll give you a little tranquilizer."

"No…" Leslie croaked. Her panic gave her a little extra strength and she scrambled to her feet, but she still wasn't completely recovered from her bout with the karnise and Paola caught her easily. This time, however, Leslie noticed that the syringe was only about half full, and wondered fearfully what Paola had in mind now.

"Yes, little girl," Paola crooned, watching the contents of the syringe empty themselves into Leslie's arm. "You'll be able to see and hear me well enough now, but you'll have no way of defending yourself."

"I'd like to know how the hell you managed to fool Father so completely," Leslie said, her voice still hoarse but filled with anger.

Paola looked at her in surprise and then shrugged. "It really wasn't so difficult once I found out how…but that isn't the issue here," she said. "What happens to Roarke doesn't concern you."

"Oh yes it does," Leslie muttered, already feeling the effects of the drug washing into her brain. "He's my father."

Viciously Paola spat out a curse in Italian. "You fool! You're not his spawn at all, just some little waif he took in out of pity. Leave the subject. Your imaginary claim on Roarke is not the reason I intend to kill you. It has to do with my baby sister."

"I don't even know your sister," Leslie protested, forcing the words out.

"Yes, you do," Paola said ominously and knelt beside Leslie, so close that the latter woman instinctively shrank back from her. "Yes, you do, Leslie Hamilton. And your very existence is preventing her from being truly happy."

Leslie glared at her; anger, impatience and bewilderment combined in a tidal surge that almost overcame the effects of the karnise. "What under the sun are you talking about? Just get to the point, Paola!" she snapped.

"Well enough," Paola said. "Not so long ago, my baby sister was married to a handsome prince from another country. She has all her heart could desire, except love—because he doesn't love her. Instead he loves you—a futile love, for there is no way you and he can ever be together. My poor Marina could have had a blissful marriage with Prince Christian, if it weren't for you and the pointless hope he retains that you'll be together!"

Leslie let the karnise have its way for a moment, dizzy with stupefaction. _Marina was the younger sister of this virago?_ "You've got to be kidding," she breathed.

"I wouldn't joke about such a thing," Paola said, rocking back onto her heels and staring fixedly at Leslie. "My father saw to it that Marina made an excellent marriage, and in time Prince Christian would have learned to love her. She's a sweet and joyful girl, all the things I could never be. She isn't plagued by the demons that haunt me. But Christian is fool enough to cling to his love for you, even though he knows he can never have you to wife. You stand in the way of my baby sister's final happiness, and for that, you must die. Once you are dead and he has received word, he will be forced to face reality and accept Marina as his true wife, instead of waiting for her to die so he can run to you."

Leslie absorbed this in silence. Puzzle pieces had started to fall into place. That was why Paola had looked oddly familiar to her at the plane dock: she and Marina bore a passing resemblance, though not enough to have alerted Leslie beyond a vague sense of having seen her before. Calmly she returned Paola's intense stare; the karnise was in fact having some of the tranquilizer effect on her that Paola had mentioned, giving her the emotional strength to face the older woman on equal ground. "It won't make any difference if you kill me, Paola," she said quietly. "The outcome's going to be the same—Marina will still die of her disease." She paused a beat or two before adding, "And so will you."

The four soft words seemed to slam into Paola like bullets; the Italian woman reared sharply back and gasped loudly in horror. "You_ know?"_ she shrieked.

"Marina told me herself: her father and sister have the disease just as she does. And you just told me you're Marina's sister…ergo, you have the disease." Leslie met Paola's shocked stare with a pitying look. "Tell me, how long have you been ill? How soon will it be before you can no longer avoid the fact that you're as mortal as any of us?"

For one endless moment time seemed to suspend itself, while Leslie watched Paola and Paola gaped back, reeling from Leslie's revelations. Then Paola's rage exploded out of her in one wordless roar and she sprang to her feet. "You die now!" she shouted and, with shaking hands, began to refill the syringe, holding the jar at eye level to take advantage of the dim glow of false dawn.

Leslie took one very deep breath, gathered all her strength and concentration and made a desperate lunge for Paola. It was a clumsy attempt, but it was enough. She fell headlong into Paola, knocking her off balance and causing the remaining contents of the jar to spill into the dirt. Paola screamed and gave Leslie a brutal shove, then seized her arm and prepared to inject her again. Leslie struggled with what little strength she could muster up, but it was no use; and she could see to her terror that Paola had managed to fill the syringe a bit more than halfway. With what was already in Leslie's system, it was entirely possible that this latest dose could be lethal.

Cursing fluently in Italian, Paola yanked the needle out and hurled Leslie's arm down in a boiling fury. "You miserable little wretch!" she finally wheezed, her lungs audibly straining for breath. "Now I'll have to make up more karnise to get the job done properly, for I want you dead before Roarke has a chance to find you." She stood there sucking in air like a bellows. "And…this time…he had best…cooperate…with me…" Blindly she stuffed the needle and jar into her bag and stumbled out without looking back. The sky grew steadily lighter; but for Leslie, darkness closed in—perhaps forever this time.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- January 13, 1999

Roarke woke up pensive, and the mood lingered as he dressed and went down for breakfast. By now Mariki was barely speaking to him; she served him after delivering a grim "good morning" and then left without another word. The sun was just rising; so when he saw four of Leslie's friends coming around the bend in the lane, he was very surprised.

"Morning, Mr. Roarke!" Lauren Knight called merrily. "Is Leslie up yet?"

Maureen Harding grinned. "I have some pictures to show her." They, with Tabitha Ordoñez and Katsumi Miyamoto behind them, crossed the porch and paused in a line along the side of the table. At this point Mariki came back onto the porch and clapped a hand over her heart at sight of the women.

"Thank the ancestral gods," she cried, sounding as if someone had just plucked her off a sinking ship. "Maybe you can do something. Miss Leslie's been missing since at least yesterday morning. This place has turned upside down and inside out, and now that we have some folks here with clear heads, it's possible someone will believe me."

The girls' smiles faded; Roarke looked jarred, sitting there staring at nothing. Lauren peered at Mariki in confusion. "Missing? Holy cow, Mariki, what'd we miss?"

"A damned soap opera, if you ask me," Mariki said tartly. "Mr. Roarke's been in some sort of mental fog, giving everyone the brush-off, and lavishing attention all over some intruder who's got him wrapped right around her little finger." Mariki lifted a pinky for emphasis. "I may as well say it right out, because all I ever get is the evil eye around here anymore. Go ahead and fire me if you must, Mr. Roarke, but I know what's been going on, and frankly, Miss Leslie's been gone so long I'm convinced she's in some kind of trouble. And you don't want to do a blamed thing about it."

"Enough," Roarke said. His tone wasn't sharp, he didn't even raise his voice; but the soft command was enough to silence Mariki. She and the four visitors focused on him, and all found themselves unnerved by his expression. He looked pale and drawn; his eyes had a bleak look in them, and his mouth was one long grim line. As if unaware of his mystified audience, he said just above a whisper, "She has betrayed me…betrayed us all…"

"_She_ isn't worth it," Mariki snapped. "What about your daughter, Mr. Roarke? What about this island and everything it's ever meant to you and all of us who live here? I don't know what she did to you, but it's time you snapped out of it!"

"You will cease, Mariki," Roarke said stonily. Something in his voice made her quail and she backed away a few steps. Slowly he stood up and paused there, looking as though he were gathering himself. "Leslie has been gone too long, and I have seen too little of the truth." He turned to Lauren, Maureen, Katsumi and Tabitha, and his voice softened. "I am gratified that Leslie has friends such as you. If you will assist in the search…"

"Absolutely," Tabitha exclaimed, and the others nodded vigorously. Mariki blew out a loud breath of relief and began to clear the table while Roarke, flanked by the four women, strode purposefully down the veranda. He never looked back or to either side, only stared resolutely straight ahead.

They piled into a station wagon, with Maureen up front and Tabitha, Katsumi and Lauren crammed into the middle seat. Roarke drove, still staring grimly out the windshield, without speaking. The girls were too worried about Leslie by now to be intimidated by his forbidding silence, though, and they murmured amongst one another as they scanned the woods along either side of the Ring Road.

About ten miles along they spotted a figure in the middle of the road; as Roarke drew closer, they saw that it was Paola. The girls had no idea who she was, but they sensed she had something to do with Leslie's absence from the flinty glare Roarke directed at her.

At first Paola didn't notice. "My Roarke…I'm so relieved to see you. The jeep I was using broke down several miles back and…" She trailed off as his expression registered. "Is something wrong?"

"Get in, Paola," Roarke ordered. She eyed him nervously but did as she was told; Maureen got out so that Paola could squeeze in between her and Roarke. Once they were rolling again, he commanded, "Tell me how to get to Leslie."

"I have no idea where Leslie is. Are you saying she never returned?" Paola asked.

Roarke stiffened visibly in the seat and slammed on the brakes, eliciting startled shrieks from the girls and a gasp from Paola. When the car had stopped, he turned furiously on her. "How dare you lie to me!" he thundered, in a towering rage the like of which none of Leslie's friends—nor Leslie herself, they suspected—had ever seen from him. "You've done an excellent job of disguising your true self, Paola, but there will be no more deception from you!" He leaned in towards her, his dark eyes boring holes in her; behind her, Maureen ducked out of the car and wedged herself in beside Katsumi. _"Where is my daughter?"_

Paola wilted under the concentrated power of his enraged gaze and began to wheeze, as if she were having an asthma attack. "She's in the jungle about twenty miles ahead of here. I found an old abandoned hut and left her there."

The girls gasped in unison and glanced at one another. Roarke held his glare for another five seconds, then released Paola and sent the car forward again. "Direct me there," he told her, "and be very specific."

Paola, cowed, did as he said, and soon they were marching up a weed-choked trail in a straggling line with her leading the way. Roarke was directly behind her, with Leslie's friends determinedly keeping up. It turned out to be quite a hike—nearly a mile, in Roarke's estimation—when the trail disgorged them into a small ragged clearing, in the middle of which sat a decrepit little hovel with no windows or doors, just holes in the walls. Tabitha said something in Náhuatl, her eyes huge with revulsion; her friends just gawked.

"She's in there," Paola said, pointing at the hut.

Roarke eyed her, then shifted his attention momentarily to the other women. "If she tries to escape, do whatever you must to restrain her," he said, then slipped through the largest hole. The hut consisted of only one room, so it was a bare second before he saw the inert form lying in the corner as if thrown there. Leslie was deeply unconscious, her face, arms and legs covered with dark smudges, her hair lank and dusty, her faded old nightshirt wrinkled, torn and filthy. She was barefoot, and he could see a pronounced mark on the inside of her left arm at the elbow, as of the insertion of a needle several times in the same spot. A massive icicle of fear speared him and he knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms with the greatest possible care, as though she might break. The self-recrimination he had held so tightly in check broke loose now, and he closed his eyes and rocked her a little, damning himself, damning Paola and all she had done.

"I have forgotten my promise," he said to himself in a barely-audible monotone. "She is my child, and I have failed her…"

"Oh no you don't!" shouted Lauren's voice from outside, and there came the rapid-fire sounds of a scuffle. Roarke shifted Leslie's dead weight in his arms and swiftly rose to a standing position, carrying her out. He was just in time to see Lauren and Maureen both holding Paola in place with white-knuckled grips; Tabitha stood with feet planted apart, glaring at her, and Katsumi was at a tree a few yards away, energetically ripping down a thick vine that twisted around the trunk.

"Is everything all right, ladies?" he asked.

"No problem, Mr. Roarke," Lauren said, shooting Paola a venomous look. "She was about to hit the trail there, but she didn't get too far."

"She probably wouldn't have anyway," Tabitha observed. "It sounds to me as if she has a severe case of asthma." Paola's panting sounded like wind moaning.

"I suspect she has far more than that," said Roarke in a steely voice. Katsumi gathered the vine in her hands and approached them; Lauren and Maureen forced Paola's arms behind her back, and Katsumi wound the vine around and around Paola's wrists, tying a huge and complicated knot just for safety's sake. Tabitha turned around and gasped again when she saw Leslie.

"Mr. Roarke, is she going to be all right?" she cried.

"I don't know," said Roarke baldly, and the bleak look filled his dark eyes again. It was so painful to see that Tabitha flinched and looked away; Lauren, Maureen and Katsumi all concentrated on restraining Paola. "We had best get back. Maureen, will you please take the wheel?" Maureen nodded, her green eyes large with worry.

Silence reigned now as the girls prodded Paola none too gently back down the trail and Roarke cradled Leslie, shielding her from overhanging vines and protruding branches all the way along. When they finally emerged onto the road, Paola said sullenly, "The jeep didn't break down—it's behind that bend." She inclined her head to their left.

Tabitha nudged Lauren. "You and I can get it. Come on." The two started off at a jog along the pavement, while Roarke settled into the front passenger seat of the station wagon with Leslie still securely in his protective embrace. Maureen looked away to forestall tears; and Paola, sensing distraction, again tried to make a break for it.

Completely out of the blue, Katsumi's foot shot out and deftly tripped her, sending her sprawling into the weeds at the roadside. "You think you are going somewhere?" she asked, her dainty voice carrying a taunting tone that sounded completely unlike her.

"Wow," said Maureen and laughed. "Go for it, Katsumi!"

Katsumi grinned. "They teach me karate at the geisha house in Japan," she said. "Not so much, only a little. But it is enough, I can break her arm if I must."

"I'm sure glad you're on our side," Maureen said cheerfully, brightening still more as the jeep came around the bend and pulled up next to them. Lauren and Tabitha jumped out and hesitated momentarily at sight of Paola prone in the brush; Maureen read their faces and said, "Katsumi tripped her up when she tried to run."

Lauren and Tabitha both laughed and hefted the cursing Paola up between them. They ignored her invective in Italian and trundled her along to the back of the jeep, slinging her unceremoniously across the rear seat while Maureen and Katsumi returned to the wagon. A worried silence settled over them all as they made their way back to the eastern side of the island, with Maureen piloting the wagon and Lauren driving the jeep.

Roarke promised Leslie's friends that he would get word to them whenever Leslie's condition changed, and they left with enormous reluctance after carrying Paola into the study and deliberately stretching her out on her stomach on the floor. Mariki had come in when they arrived, and now peered at Paola with a jaundiced eye. "Not so full of yourself anymore, are we?" she remarked rhetorically.

Paola cursed at her again, her voice hoarse from yelling and her incessant wheezing. "Be silent, Paola," Roarke said sharply. "Mariki, please call the authorities and have her removed. I find her presence in my house to be a great irritant."

"With pleasure, sir…and welcome back," Mariki said significantly. Roarke paused long enough to eye her with mock threat, and she simply smiled.

"I will be back down as soon as I have taken care of Leslie," he said, relenting and cracking the faintest of smiles, "and then I will see to it myself that Paola leaves the island. You, my dear, are no longer welcome here." The former endearment took on a mocking, ironic quality now.

"I want my property back," Paola shouted at him.

"You'll have it," Roarke said. "Mariki, please handle that also." Mariki nodded, already dialing the police.

"It won't matter, Roarke—the damage is done. She's going to die," Paola taunted. "I'll leave, never fear. I'll be going where I'm welcome—to someone you never thought to see again." Roarke shook his head wearily and started up the stairs with Leslie.

When he came back down a few minutes later, the police had arrived and were about to escort Paola out the door. "Good riddance to smelly garbage," Mariki pronounced. The cops looked at each other with surprised grins.

"Where should we take her, Mr. Roarke?" one asked.

"To the plane dock," Roarke replied. "I believe the next charter is due to depart in less than ten minutes. Her luggage will meet her there, and she is to be seated on the plane before you leave her to her own devices."

Once they were gone, Mariki followed Roarke up the stairs and into Leslie's room, where he had laid her atop the bed for the moment to be sure Paola was properly removed from the premises. Mariki winced at sight of Leslie. "The poor girl! Mr. Roarke, she needs a lot of TLC. I'll run a bath right away and lay out some fresh nightclothes for her. Just wait here." She bustled out of the room, and Roarke watched her go before turning to gaze at Leslie with an infinitely sorrowful look on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- January 15, 1999

Leslie wasn't sure at first what she would awaken to. She was afraid to open her eyes, but her ears strained for any sound. To her surprise, she got one—and clear as a bell, too. She forced her eyes to stay open long enough to try to locate the source, and got another shock: normal vision. What had happened?

Another sound reached her ears: a voice, Mariki's. "Are you very sure about this weekend, sir? Miss Julie said she would help."

Roarke's voice responded, "I am positive, Mariki. There will be no fantasies granted till there is some positive change in Leslie's condition. You had better get word to Julie before she calls asking yet again. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

Leslie listened to Roarke's footfalls on the steps, thinking with swelling hope that he had sounded very much like his usual self. Suddenly she wanted to know everything. When Roarke stepped into the room, she twisted her head around to see him, and he stopped short in the doorway, staring, then lighting up like a chandelier.

"Leslie…ah, Leslie! How do you feel, child?" he exclaimed softly, settling down on the edge of her bed and folding her hand between both of his.

Leslie opened her mouth, hesitated, then let out a prolonged "ah" sound that, to her utter surprise, came out clearly. "Thank heavens. My voice works too. I feel fine, actually, Father. What's happened? What've I missed?"

"Two days, for starters," Roarke said laughingly, his voice slightly shaky in his great relief. "You were deeply unconscious throughout all that time, and I was very worried about you. It appears you have recovered in full somehow."

Leslie was reminded then. "Father, what's karnise?" she asked.

Roarke's eyebrows popped up. "Karnise?" he echoed.

"That's what Paola was injecting into me," she explained.

Recognition filled Roarke's features and he closed his eyes, involuntarily squeezing Leslie's hand in sudden anger. "So that's what it was—and that's why she repeatedly asked me for more of that elixir," he said. He focused on Leslie. "Perhaps we had better start from the beginning, so that this makes more sense."

"Please do," she said. "Curiosity's eating me alive here."

He smiled fleetingly. "The migraine treatment I made for Paola consists of a number of rare ingredients," he said, "of the sort that can be found only here on the island. But it is a base agent—in other words, with the addition of any of a large number of other items, it can be made into almost anything one desires. In this case, Paola added ground amakarna to the mixture: that's what made it karnise, and karnise is harmful to humans in more than small doses. Normally it is used as a sleep aid."

"That's why it knocked me out," Leslie realized, and Roarke nodded. "It must be toxic if you administer enough of it. Paola kept saying she was going to make sure she killed me using the stuff." Her mind jumped tracks, so that she missed the flash of sheer rage that came and went in a split second on Roarke's features. "Harmful to humans," Leslie said slowly. "Father…who exactly was Paola anyway? At one point you made reference to 'the average human being' in regard to her, and then the first time I woke up from the effects of the karnise, Paola said she might have used too much for a 'mere mortal'. She's not quite human, is she?"

Roarke closed his eyes again and turned his head away somewhat, a weary, shamed look settling in. "Paola is one of my people, Leslie," he said gently. "That is why she had such power over me. She caught me entirely unaware; she had never shown evidence of any powers while she was my assistant. I knew then that she had many problems, but she was much different at the time. In the intervening years she must have acquired a great deal of knowledge…from whom, I don't know. But she used her proximity to me to control my perception of her."

"So how did you finally get back to yourself?" Leslie asked.

"Lack of that very proximity," said Roarke. "In hindsight, she grew too certain of herself and her power over both of us, and I sensed it even at the time, without fully realizing it. She thought she had me firmly under her control, and spent that time in her attempt to murder you. She was thirty miles from here and was gone too long, and in the end her influence faded away, allowing me to think clearly once more."

"Thirty miles," Leslie breathed. "Where did she take me?" She listened wide-eyed as Roarke explained how he and four of her friends had collaborated to rescue Leslie from Paola's clutches, how he had banished her from the island, and how Mariki had stepped in where Leslie's own mother might have done, bathing her, washing her hair, dressing her in clean nightwear and making her comfortable in her own bed.

"Mariki did all that?" Leslie asked, astonished.

Roarke nodded, smiling, and smoothed her hair back a little. "She's very fond of you, child," he said. "It was she who first suggested your disappearance was suspicious, and she became very upset with me—after all, I was still under the mental veil that Paola had drawn. There were a few moments when I was on the verge of firing her, and she knew it."

"Don't you dare fire her," Leslie warned, grinning, feeling tears stinging her throat and the backs of her eyes even as she spoke. "That lady's a treasure."

"Indeed she is," Roarke agreed wholeheartedly.

"Did you know that Paola is Marina's sister?" Leslie asked suddenly. "That's why she wanted to kill me. She had the notion that as long as I was alive, Christian could cling to his hopes that he and I could still be together; whereas if I were dead, he'd have to face facts and shift his feelings to Marina. She blamed me for Marina not having a happy marriage."

Roarke shook his head slowly. "She is ill, Leslie, in more ways than one."

"I know," Leslie said. "When I found out who she was, I knew she had the same terminal disease Marina does. Marina told me her father and sister both had it, and it was easy to draw the natural conclusion."

"She is mentally ill also," Roarke said. "I am afraid there is no more cure for that than there is for the physical ailment. However, she is beyond any help we could give her, and all we can do is go on." He paused, indicating a change of subject. "I canceled this weekend's fantasies due to your condition…"

"I heard," Leslie told him. "Listen, if I can get up and walk normally, will you revoke the cancellation?"

Roarke laughed softly. "That eager to return to work, are you? Actually, child, I think it best if you take one more day to rest. You've been through a great deal and I want to be certain you're completely recovered. Do you feel up to eating?"

"I'm starving," Leslie realized with great surprise. "I suppose you're going to insist that I eat here in my room."

Roarke grinned. "That may not be necessary. In fact, there are some people who are very eager to see you, and I thought you would enjoy a lunch date here with your friends."

Leslie lit up. "That sounds wonderful!" She sat up, exerting just a little extra effort, and hugged him. "I'm so glad all this is over."

"I failed you, my child," Roarke said softly, holding her close. "I should have been better prepared…"

"You couldn't have known," Leslie said flatly, "and as you said, she caught you off guard. She could see I knew she was trouble, but that's the weird thing—since I'm just a regular old human being, the only way she could control me was to try to kill me. Father, don't beat yourself up about it. You threw her off the island, and I'm back to normal, and so are you. Can we just move forward and dispense with placing blame?"

He smiled at her, his dark eyes teasing. "Where did you get that wisdom?"

"I had the world's best teacher," she told him proudly and grinned back. "Let's have some lunch, shall we?"

"It will be just you and the other girls," Roarke said. "I need to make several phone calls, so I'll be here in the study." He stood up and gave her a hand, and she slipped out of the bed, clearly raring to go.

On his way down the stairs, he abruptly felt unaccountably weary; and his stomach felt as if he'd eaten far too much, despite the fact that he had had nothing since breakfast some six hours before. Roarke paused halfway down and frowned, wide-eyed with surprise. Had he caught something, somewhere? He took a few more steps down and his knees came very close to buckling under him.

_Too much has happened in the past several days,_ he told himself. _Perhaps I should take the same advice I gave Leslie and rest for the day._ He hated to admit it, but the fact remained that he had been through a tough ordeal, as much as Leslie had. They both needed time for healing. But, if his ordeal had been mental, why was he experiencing physical effects?

Roarke firmly shut out the twinge of disquiet he felt and straightened up before crossing the study. The weariness subsided, to his relief. Yes, it was just the effects of what Paola had put him through. He smiled faintly and thought he might have lunch with Leslie and her friends after all.

* * *

_Paola may have been defeated, but she's left more of a legacy than anyone yet suspects. And when they do find out, it's a whopper! More to come…_


End file.
